Brush-happy girls had been wearing the smoky eye for years, and Xylo’s version wasn’t as scary as some of the botched jobs I’d seen.
Even young witchlings with their first cauldron and book of spells weren’t as dangerous or frightening as a young girl with her first make-up kit.
I just hoped the smoke in Xylo’s eyes wasn’t some portent of doom.
I motioned for him to stand since he was still sitting on the ground, enshrouded in the mist so that he looked like a floating skull. “What’s the demon’s name?” I asked. “Maybe I’ve heard of her before.”
Xylo stared out at the cemetery for a few more moments, not looking eager to get moving. Finally, he climbed to his feet with a faint rattling sound as his bones clinked against each other. “She does not use her name. Everyone just calls her the demon or demoness, and she is very dangerous, even in her current situation. While we are here, we could at least kill one of the nearby targets to get some of your powers—”
I shook my head firmly. “The demoness.” I wondered why she didn’t use her name here, since Samael obviously knew who she was. Did Dracula not let her since no one else seemed to have names?
Xylo nodded. “As you wish,” he said in an obedient tone. Despite having failed to convince me to change my target, I didn’t sense even a hint of annoyance or frustration in his voice. He was definitely the submissive in our Fifty Shades of Bone relationship.
I glanced down at my muddy hands and grimaced, realizing I had only the clothing I was wearing to wipe them off—my white ninja outfit from Xuanwu and Ryuu. The clothes would probably soon be speckled with blood, so there wasn’t any logical justification to me cringing about getting my pretty pants dirty, but I couldn’t help myself.
“What did you mean by her current situation?” I asked absently, scanning our surroundings to make sure we really were clear of patrols.
Xylo was quiet for a few moments. “It will make more sense if you see for yourself. I’m not entirely sure I understand it myself.”
I nodded distractedly, trying to shake off the feeling that we were being watched. “Which way to these Gardens of Eternal Woe?”
He turned to me, looking confused. “Eternal Gardens,” he corrected, pointing over my shoulder. Then he pointed in the opposite direction at a nearby body of water that looked like a swamp of sorts hugging up against the far side of the Village. “That is the Lake of Everlasting Woe.”
I sighed. “Of course. My mistake.”
What else would you name a lake?
Chapter 16
Since he still hadn’t made an effort to move, I began walking in the direction he’d indicated for the Eternal Gardens. I kept low, slipping from headstone to headstone, keeping alert for any other sentries. I heard Xylo’s familiar shuffling gait behind me and wished I had some kind of rope or cord to tie his boots tighter so they would make less noise. I knew I was being paranoid, because it wasn’t really that loud. More annoying than anything.
Our path brought us closer to the pub-like structure than I would have liked, but still far enough away to remain unobserved since the flickering braziers hanging from the awning near the entrance didn’t cast light far enough to reveal us. But we were close enough to see and hear the same woman outside the entrance that I had spotted from up on the bridge hours ago. She was catcalling several male creatures in the street, suggesting nasty, sinful experiences that made even my cheeks flush red.
This hell harlot had a nastier mouth than any seaman I’d ever heard about, and she had absolutely no shame as she continued hounding for a pounding to anyone who would listen.
But the men hurried on by, not even bothering to acknowledge her. She seamlessly changed her sales pitch into foul-mouthed taunts aimed at their departing backs as she abrasively heckled their inability to satisfy a real woman. I shook my head in disbelief, but continued on, not wanting to risk one of the men in the street spotting our silhouettes in the pale mist.
I kept my eyes on her as I slipped by, taking special note of her tail even though the rest of her looked mainly human. I bit back a laugh upon realizing she was offering up some tail for anyone willing to suffer her unbelievably scandalous suggestions.
I reached the edge of the cemetery and was confronted by a veritable wall of reeds taller than me—like a cornfield in the peak season—and squishy, swampy earth. I glanced back at Xylo and he nodded, motioning me forward. I winced uneasily, recalling several movies that involved a character trying to flee into a cornfield to escape a murderer.
It usually didn’t end well for them.
Xylo suddenly hissed out a muffled warning and I ducked into a crouch, turning to look back at him. I heard a familiar thud and glanced over his shoulder to see that a gargoyle had dropped out of the sky to land outside the pub a few paces away from the hell harlot.
He said something to her that I couldn’t hear, and she paused to assess him up and down in a withering fashion. My pulse slowed when I realized that we weren’t about to be assaulted like Xylo had presumed upon seeing the gargoyle descending so rapidly.
The woman finally held out her hand, seeming to want a deposit or proof that he was good for the money.
He handed her a small pouch and she hefted it critically. Then she shook her head after a few moments—probably choosing to charge more for the stone gargoyle than her usual price for those with flesh and blood.
He looked crestfallen for a moment and then hurriedly reached into another pouch at his belt and he pulled out—
I blinked incredulously. No fucking way.
He had resorted to bartering, and I was pretty sure that the long stone shaft he was waving animatedly at her was the dismembered gargoyle wang I had broken off that poor bastard on the bridge.
This sick puppy had stolen his pal’s wang, and rather than alerting the others about his fallen comrades, he’d absconded with the phallic souvenir so he could trade it away for an hour of pleasure!
Talk about a wingman.
She cocked her head thoughtfully, grasping the shaft in a practiced manner. Finally, she nodded, slipping the pocket rocket into the bosom of her dress as she grabbed the gargoyle by the hand and tugged him inside the pub, looking more excited about her new girl toy than her patron.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Xylo swiveled his head my way, looking alarmed, and I immediately cut it short with a cough, sweeping the street with my eyes for any sign that someone had heard me.
No one had, thankfully. I let out a breath of relief, but Xylo was already anxiously shuffling my way, lightly shoving me into the reeds and out of sight of the pub. In my haste to comply, I tripped over a rotten log and landed on my knees with a disgusting squelching sound. I had reached out with one of my hands to catch my fall and it had landed on something squishy and warm.
I pulled my hand back, intending to give Xylo a piece of my mind.
But a bubbling croak stopped me cold. I slowly looked up to see that my hand hadn’t landed in more mud. It had found a body.
Xylo let out a rattling growl, but I didn’t dare turn away to look.
Because I was face-to-face with a slimy, dark green frogman who had been leaning back against a dead stump as tall as me, apparently taking a nap. I watched his bulging, golden eyes flutter open from beneath his conical, lily-pad hat. Without knowing to look for him, he very easily blended into his surroundings. If I hadn’t touched him, I might not have ever seen him.
He looked just as stunned as me, as if he wasn’t entirely sure whether he had woken up or was still dreaming.
Then his throat began to bubble outward as if he was taking a deep breath to croak out an alarm.
Without consciously realizing it, I’d already set my hand on the hilt of my katana and the blade left my belt with a faint whisper before slicing upward with as much force and speed as I could muster.
My blade sliced clean through the frogman’s leg, severing the delectable hunk of meat as efficiently as a filet knife in
a pricey French restaurant. It crashed to the ground, forcing the frog to remain leaning against the log for support as he squealed breathlessly, grabbing onto his stump in a panicked gesture.
I spotted his trident propped up beside him, swept it up in my free hand, and then stabbed it straight into his bulbous throat, still fearing he was about to emit his ear-shattering croak. His wet, webbed hands darted weakly to his trident in an attempt to tug it free, and I used the distraction to slice off the belt holding his sticky, acidic, coiled whip on his hip, since I didn’t dare take it away from him with my bare hands.
Xylo suddenly grabbed me by one shoulder, yanking me back.
“We must run!” he hissed, glancing back and forth at the field of reeds surrounding us—where any number of other frogs could be camouflaged and lying in wait.
“Oui,” I murmured absently, holding my sword out before me as my eyes darted back and forth searching for any other frogmen.
“Yes, we,” Xylo urged. “We both need to run. Now.”
I frowned in confusion before realizing that I’d spoken the French word for yes—still thinking about frog legs—without realizing it.
“How about you lead, Xylo,” I suggested. “And hop to it,” I added, wanting to place as much distance as possible between me and the whimpering, dying frogman behind me.
We’d taken two steps before the frogman found the strength to remove the trident and use his last breath to belch out a bone-chilling, croaking ribbit of alarm—even I could tell it was a cry for backup, and I didn’t speak frog.
What really concerned me was how many similar croaks replied.
And how close they all were. Some of them had to be in the reeds with us. And they had those handy tongue whips.
“Merde,” I cursed in French, urging Xylo to run faster.
Chapter 17
Luckily, we’d made it out of the reeds with minimal fuss—although the sounds of pursuit had come alarmingly close. We’d only escaped by covering ourselves in the swampy mud—hair, clothes, and every inch of our bodies.
It smelled positively delightful, if you were wondering.
Then, rather than running, we’d sat down in the deepest, thickest part of the reeds and were perfectly still for almost an hour.
The frogmen had walked past us about a dozen times, and somehow, they did so in complete silence, unlike when I had seen them outside the cemetery. Soft croaks had bubbled up from their throats—some signal to tell their buddies that this area was clear—before they slipped away to expand their search, assuming we had run for our lives and wouldn’t have been stupid enough to stay in the reeds.
After they’d left, we’d still waited about twenty minutes before risking our escape—in a slightly different direction than we’d originally intended.
We slipped from the edge of the reeds and into a silent, aromatic garden blooming with dozens of flowers I had never seen nor heard of before.
Which only made me hyper-aware of the filth covering our bodies, tainting the pleasant scent of flowery heaven.
We knelt down in a thick patch of tall, white flowers—which let us keep an eye on the reeds while remaining concealed—just in case any of the frogmen had the bright idea to check the adjacent Eternal Gardens.
I let out a breath of relief. “That went well,” I said dryly.
Xylo nodded. “You are still alive, so I agree. But we should be more careful in the future. Until you get some of your powers back.”
I nodded, knowing we wouldn’t have stood a chance if more than a handful of those frogs had caught us. I was a good fighter, but there was something to be said for having greater numbers—since I had no magic to balance the scales.
The distant sound of screams, cheers, and roars carried to us on the breeze from the direction of the Coliseum, which I could see much more clearly from here. I shivered, not wanting to know what had caused it.
“The Coliseum must be open tonight,” Xylo said absently, staring off into the distance at the domed structure. “Two potential targets reside in that area, but there will be hordes of guests watching the event, depending on who is participating tonight. There will be no opportunity for stealth.”
“Some kind of show?” I asked, grimacing.
“The Menagerie volunteers prisoners for fights. Although it was scheduled for tomorrow.” He looked suddenly uncertain. “Perhaps I made a mistake. What if I have my days mixed—”
I placed a finger over his lips. Well, where his lips would have been. The bone was surprisingly warm to the touch—almost hot. “I’m sure you’re right. Dracula is probably just trying to make things interesting for us, or putting on a special show for Samael,” I mused, taking away my finger. “What is the menagerie?”
Xylo gritted his teeth. “A prison for shifters—those who refuse to work here. Dracula sends out hunting parties to capture them from the outside world. Although, it has been some time since anyone has been able to leave.”
I grimaced distastefully, only marginally satisfied to hear that Roland’s barrier had come with an unintended benefit—preventing Dracula from leaving to acquire new victims. “And he puts them into fights in the Coliseum?” I asked, furiously.
Xylo nodded. “Entertainment.”
I clenched my fists, closing my eyes for a three-count. Just another reason to end this farce. Dracula had to die. “Do you think he sensed me breaking your bond to him?” I asked, opening my eyes suddenly as I realized that I hadn’t even considered it before now.
Xylo shrugged slightly. “I do not think he uses it. I’m always right there to do his bidding.”
“Right.” I wasn’t necessarily reassured by that answer, but I knew Dracula wanted me to succeed to some extent—enough to meet him for dinner—so I was pretty sure he would give me enough rope to hang myself. This was all a game to him. And the odds were already stacked against me.
He would leave us alone for a while longer. Things would change as I drew closer to our date.
But I had my own suspicions about how that would play out. Bits and pieces of the past few days had begun to shift and spin in my brain, rearranging and realigning comments, advice, and other things people had told me. Because I’d learned very well how words could be twisted. That was what had brought me here. Misleading statements. Double entendres. Wordplay.
Put another way, Papa Homonym and Mama Synonym had bought a bottle of Boone’s Farm, some whip cream, and silk blindfolds to bump uglies like uglies had never been bumped before—to pervert Schoolhouse Rock into a late-night Cinemax special—in hopes of conceiving a phonetic paradox.
And it had worked, wasting a lot of my time as I tried to figure out what everyone really meant when their lips began moving.
But I no longer had time for games. This was a house of monsters, and I needed to make a statement—to remind them what fear tasted like, and that she had a name.
Callie Penrose. The White Rose. And that she was as sweetly spicy as candy-coated ghost peppers.
There really was no better place to cut loose. Any collateral damage from an all-out brawl would only harm other monsters. Like the infamous Marine, Chesty Puller, said when he was told his division of Marines was surrounded by enemy soldiers.
Great. Now we can shoot at those bastards from every direction.
If I couldn’t cut loose here, where could I? Everyone here had earned a shallow grave to feed the scavengers.
I was the Circle of Life.
Well, I would introduce everyone to their new position on the food chain, at least.
I turned to Xylo to find him openly staring at my chest, looking thoughtful. I frowned, snapping my fingers to get his attention.
“Hey! You have to be more discreet if you’re going to stare at boobs all day,” I said, frowning in surprise.
He quickly jerked his head away, the smoke in his eye-sockets swirling rapidly. “Not your breasts. I was looking at the blood painted there,” he said defensively. “I find myself drawn to it, but also disgust
ed by it,” he admitted, indicating the Cross Pattée that I had painted on my chest before my fight with Roland in Kansas City.
“Why are you interested in it all of a sudden?” I asked. He’d seen it often enough already. Then again, I’d had my coat buckled closed in order to give me as much protection as possible—and to give us better chances at stealth, since it was practically a flashing neon sign. But I’d opened my coat after the frogs left, feeling like the swampy humidity was about to boil me alive from the inside out. At the same time, this was potentially huge if it had sparked some memory of his, so I tried not to act too defensively. “Do you recognize it?” I asked carefully.
He finally shook his head. “No. I do not know why it drew my attention,” he admitted, sounding frustrated. “I’m sorry for staring at your boobs.”
I nodded, not letting my own frustration show. It was a step in the right direction, at least. “Don’t worry. It happens to me all the time, Xylo. Both fending off the boob-watchers and thinking I recognize something but not being able to explain it. Just relax and it might come back to you, okay?”
He nodded, looking relieved.
“Now, what do I need to know about these Eternal Gardens?” I asked, gesturing at the flowers all around us. “It doesn’t look so bad. Does it have venom-spitting nymphs or carnivorous plants?”
Xylo was silent for a time. “Worse,” he said, climbing to his feet. “We shouldn’t linger once we get there…”
“Wait. This isn’t the Eternal Gardens?” I asked, frowning.
Xylo shook his head. “Hardly. It’s at least an hour away.”
Well. This was shaping up to be all sorts of fun. I’d had to kill pansies before, but never literally.
“Lead on,” I said with a sigh.
I followed behind him, keeping an eye out for more patrols as I let my mind wander, analyzing my current situation.
Like Xylo, something was bothering me too, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Just a faint but persistent nagging sensation. I replayed my conversation with Dracula and Samael, wondering if one of them had said something that I had missed, but nothing jumped out at me, and I found myself growing angrier with each step—angry that they thought to constrict me by giving me this stupid quest. To give me something to focus on other than them.
Godless: Feathers and Fire Book 7 Page 10